But it is bearable, I remind myself. I’ve survived worse.
Just after four o’clock Derry appears, with three dresses – it’s Kiara’s Hallowe’en social tonight.
‘Any word from Steevie?’ she asks quietly.
Since the disastrous brunch a week ago, I haven’t contacted Steevie and she hasn’t contacted me. Worse, neither of us has liked any of the other’s Facebook posts, the modern equivalent of pistols at dawn.
I hate being on the outs with anyone but, right now, Steevie and I can’t be what the other needs. It’s shit, but what can you do?
‘Show us the lovely dresses!’ Beautiful things might take my mind off it.
‘I thought this was seasonal-looking.’ Derry waves a black, floor-length velvet sheath, with a thigh-high slit, at Kiara.
‘Give me that.’ I go straight to the label. It’s Givenchy. ‘Aaargh! I knew it! God, Derry, you’re good to yourself. Why can’t we be the same height?’
‘Because life is shite.’
This strikes me as so funny that I hoot.
Kiara tries on the dress. She’s so tall and slender and beautiful that I have to swallow convulsively. ‘I dunno.’ She’s trying to hold the thigh slit closed. ‘I don’t think it’s me.’
‘Stand up straight,’ Derry orders. ‘Go on, you’re a stunner.’
‘Ah, no, give me another one to try.’
The second, a double-layer of navy silk jersey from Preen, also fits. But the back is cut all the way down to the waist and, as Derry points out, ‘You can’t wear a bra.’
Kiara colours and says, ‘I can’t not wear a bra.’
‘You’re not exactly Emily Ratajkowski.’
‘I’m wearing my bra.’
God, she didn’t get her strong will from me!
The third dress is a slender column of heavy creamy-white satin – long-sleeved, high-necked, very modest – very Kiara.
‘It’s like a wedding dress,’ Neeve exclaims. ‘Is there something you want to tell us, Derry?’
Derry gives her a scathing look.
‘You’re my hero, Der!’
‘I like this one best,’ Kiara says.
‘Corpse bride,’ I exclaim.
‘Totally!’
‘You’ll need a head thing.’ Neeve is googling. ‘Black flowers. A veil. Mum, look in your sewing box!’
There are definitely black fabric roses in there. I remember the day I bought them, less than two years ago, at the Taney Christmas fair. Every summer and Christmas, the fair was a family tradition but one by one the girls became too grown-up to come. Two years ago was the first time that all three of them bailed on me. I still wanted to go – there would be cakes and cheap books and the possibility of stumbling over something wonderful – so when Hugh saw my gloom, he said, ‘Feck the rest of them, you and me will go up.’
We held hands and we had fun. There was a stall strewn with sewing accessories and, encouraged by Hugh, I loaded up with ribbons and fabric appliqués, which cost half-nothing.
Hugh also hit pay-dirt when he found a red fibreglass sled. ‘Look!’ he cried. ‘It’s in perfect condition. Neevy would love this, right?’
I wasn’t so sure. Neevy was a bit grown-up for sledding. All of them were.
‘Ah, no.’ Realization hit him at the same time. ‘Why can’t they be little girls for ever?’
‘I know.’ I was mournful.
‘Let’s have another baby,’ he said.
I laughed a soft, wifely, you-total-lunatic laugh. Now I wished we’d come straight home and had sex. Not in the hope of having another child but because it was a moment of connection we should have jumped on.
Well, it’s too late now so I return to the task at hand. I’m certain there’s a length of white toile in the box that would do for Kiara’s veil. ‘I’ll need a hairband.’
‘On it!’ Sofie is all business. ‘Leave the hair stuff to me.’
Neeve sits Kiara on a kitchen chair in the middle of the living room, applying corpse-bride make-up, while I sew black roses on to a black velvet hairband. Derry presses the white dress, then carries on down the laundry pile. ‘As I’ve the iron on, I might as well.’
At some stage we open one of the boxes of Celebrations I’d bought for the Hallowe’en kids. A while later, Derry, Neeve and I have a glass of Baileys. It might be the alcohol or the sugar, but as I lounge on the sofa, watching Neeve apply false lashes to Kiara, Sofie leaning against me, Derry sitting on the floor, her head on my knees, I realize I feel okay. My life is so far from perfect and in five minutes’ time I might be in so much sorrow that I’ll want to tear my heart out, but in this moment I feel content and I’m so bloody glad for the respite.
‘Can I look yet?’ Kiara asks.
‘Nope.’ Neeve has painted her face white and created thick purple circles around her eyes. Now she gives her black lipstick, and when that’s done, Sofie jumps in, backcombing Kiara’s hair, clipping in dark blue hair extensions, twisting locks into Medusa-like ropes, then blasting the whole confection with salt-spray.
‘Okay, Amy,’ Sofie says. ‘Now do her veil.’
Carefully I attach the black-rose hairband and veil to Kiara’s elaborate nest of hair, then step back.
‘That looks great,’ Derry says. ‘Really great.’
‘Now you can look!’ Neeve decrees, sticking a mirror under Kiara’s nose.
‘Oh! Oh!’ Kiara squeals. ‘I look good, right?’ Her gleeful face is still there under all the make-up.
‘You look amazing.’
‘Now, you’d better have something to eat,’ I say.
‘Oh, Mu-um,’ Kiara complains. Then, ‘Okay.’
‘Pasta all right? I’ll do you the butterflies.’
I throw some red stuff from a jar over Kiara’s pasta and she says, echoing what Hugh and I – Masterchef fans – say, ‘That’s a good-looking plate of food.’
She really is the sweetest creature.
At five past seven her date arrives.
‘Ten minutes early?’ Derry is suspicious.
‘Good manners,’ I say.
‘Super-neurotic, more like.’
I hiss a sharp ‘Shush!’ at her.
Neeve opens the door to him. ‘Are you Reilly? Kiara will be down in a minute.’
‘Come in, till we have a look at you,’ Derry calls.
‘Ah, no, I’ll just –’
‘Come in!’
‘I think you’d better,’ Neeve says.
So in the poor lad shuffles.
It’s hard to tell what he’s actually like because he’s made up as a vampire – white foundation, black guy-liner and a lot of red drool around his mouth. But he’s tall, which is nice, because Kiara is also tall and self-conscious about it.
And here she is, tripping down the stairs. They squeal at the sight of each other. ‘Dude!’
‘Duuuuude!’
‘You’re totally Hallowe’en-tastic!’
‘You’re more Hallowe’en-tastic!’
Kiara leaves in a flurry of ‘Bye, Mum. Bye, everyone!’
‘Um, bye,’ I bleat. ‘Have a good time. Have you your phone?’ I’ve to fight the urge to call, ‘Don’t have sex.’
The door slams shut behind them. Then the four of us stare at each other, our eyes popping.
‘Our baby girl is all grown-up!’ Neeve exclaims. Then, ‘Oh, Mum! You’re not fecking crying again?’
It’s late on Saturday night and I’ve just realized that Jana is ghosting me.
I’d texted her twice during the week, once to thank her for being nice to me at the toxic brunch, then a second time to make sure she’d got my first text. Both times deafening silence was what I got in response but I was so busy angsting about Steevie blanking me that I neglected to realize that so was Jana.
Five minutes ago, paranoia hit me, like a slab of concrete, and when I checked my Facebook timeline, Jana hadn’t liked any of my posts since last Saturday.
She’s picked a side. Until now I hadn
’t known there were sides to be picked. I’d thought Steevie and I would sort this out and soon. But apparently it’s bigger than just me and Steevie.
Now I’m afraid: who else is Steevie going to recruit? Because I’m certain that Jana didn’t unilaterally decide to take agin me. Is Steevie going to turn everyone against me?
I’m also terribly hurt. I’m so fond of Jana – I feel very tenderly about her. I don’t like when people mock her for being silly and I’ve stood up for her against several people including – yes! – Steevie. If Jana is being allocated, I’m the one who deserves her.
But haven’t I learnt that that’s not the way life works?
59
Wednesday, 2 November, day fifty-one
Caroline Snowden, the journalist sitting opposite me, has something to get off her chest. I wait it out.
‘Amy,’ she says eventually. ‘Ruthie Billingham’s done a big interview for this week’s Sunday Times magazine.’
Shite. This is the first print interview Ruthie has done. Until now, everything has been ‘sources close to’.
‘Look, you’re going to have to put out this fire.’ Caroline brings our lunch to a premature finish.
‘I’m so sorry, Caroline.’
‘It’s time I got back, anyway.’ She’s really nice. ‘We’ll see each other soon.’
I give her the full-body hug in gratitude, and I have twenty-one minutes before my next meeting. Think, think, think …
Right. A photo op with the kids. Where? In a playground? Hmm, something more meaningful would be better. Okay, got it, the football!
I reach for my phone. ‘Matthew?’
‘Amy?’ He sounds distracted.
‘Can you talk? Couple of questions. When are Fulham next playing a home match?’
‘This Saturday.’
‘Can you take the kids?’
‘It’s my weekend with them and we have season tickets.’
‘Even Beata?’
He half laughs. ‘Gender stereotyping, Amy!’
‘Ha-ha, my bad.’ Come on, I don’t have time for this. ‘Okay. I need to see you ASAP.’
‘Why? What?’
‘To set up a paparazzi op at the match.’
‘I’m not having my kids in a paper.’
They’ve already been in several. ‘They’ll pixellate out their faces.’
‘It’s wrong. Can’t I just be at the match on my own? Or with Dan?’
For a clever man, he can be astonishingly clueless. ‘Matthew.’ I’m gentle. ‘Two blokes. At a football match? Forgive me for being crass but it’s nothing like tragic single dad on a rare afternoon out with his two beloved children.’
I actually hear him swallow. ‘Today is crazy.’
Right. It’s Wednesday, when he does his shaming-the-politicians show.
‘All I can spare,’ he says, ‘is fifteen minutes around five thirty.’
I’d miss my flight home, but so be it. ‘You’re at the BBC? I’ll meet you there.’
‘So something’s finally happening. Dan will be happy.’
I doubt that very much.
Seconds before I arrive at the BBC, there’s a strange twang on my right shoulder, followed by a swift droop of my right breast. What the … Oh, God, one of my bra straps has just given up the ghost.
Desperately I look along Oxford Street – there’s a Marks & Spencer so near I can almost see it, but I can’t chance being late for Matthew. I need every available second with him. Maybe I could nip to the Ladies, pin the strap back to the main body of the bra and hoist my knocker upwards once more? But that assumes I’ve a pin on my person and I don’t …
My frontage is lopsided, I can tell just by looking down at it. I could take off the bra entirely and then my low-slung shelf would be at least symmetrical. But, no, decency insists that the bra stays on.
Shite. This is terrible timing, and unfortunately I’m wearing the wrong clothes – some days I’m in strict tailoring, which assists in keeping everything corralled. But today it’s a high-collared Victorian-style dress, which provides no support. There is nothing to do but style this out, so I swing my right arm forward, clamping my right knocker under it and move forward in Quasimodo-esque fashion.
From the hard stare the security guard at the BBC gives me, it’s clearly not working. However, the show must go on. I do the usual rigmarole of signing in, getting a lanyard and being told someone will come and fetch me. Then who do I see, cooling his heels in the giant marble lobby? Only Dante. Not today! Not when I’ve just had a knocker emergency! And what the hell is up with the brothers Carlisle? Must they do everything together?
Dante’s inspecting the ceiling, then checks his phone and then, with a sharp snap of his neck, spots me. Instantly he looks like an aggrieved whippet, as if I’m the one who shouldn’t be there. Briskly, his heels clipping on the cold floor, he crosses to me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Hello to you too.’
He pauses, straightens the lapels of his suit jacket, then seems to gather himself. ‘Sorry. Hello, Amy. But why the sudden need for action?’
Childishly, I don’t want to tell him. ‘Client confidentiality.’
He seems almost sad. ‘I’m here to help.’
‘Your help isn’t needed. Seriously, Dante, I’m very good at my job.’
‘Yes, you are.’
I receive this with a stiff nod.
‘And I’d prefer if you called me Dan.’
‘I know.’
He sighs audibly.
‘Dan? Amy?’ One of the thousands of people who work in television, indistinguishable with their clipboard, headset and trainers, has materialized.
We go up in a lift and the headset boy says, ‘Matthew’s in a meeting. He’ll be out soon.’
On the third floor, Dante and I follow the minion down endless corridors and through clusters of workspaces. The underling is going at quite a lick and it’s a hard job to keep my rogue knocker from jumping right out from the bra cup. Eventually, in a clearing outside a small office, the glass walls shielded with black venetian blinds, we stop. ‘Wait here,’ says the minion, who promptly disappears.
There’s nowhere to sit. Dante gets out his phone, then so do I, but neither of us is giving them our full attention because we’re waiting for Matthew to emerge and we both want to get to him first.
Finally he materializes from the glassy office, trailing a couple of other people. Dante and I hurry towards him – we’re this close to actually shoving each other out of the way.
‘Amy.’ I get a cheek kiss from Matthew. ‘Come in here.’ Dante and I follow Matthew back into the office, which really is tiny, more of a cubicle. You’d think a man as important as him would have his own penthouse suite, but the BBC must be very egalitarian because there’s barely room for the three of us around the tinchy desk.
‘So?’ Matthew’s nervous.
‘Okay. And it is okay.’ I’m being Reassuring Amy. ‘Ruthie’s got a big interview coming in this weekend’s Sunday Times.’
Matthew swallows. ‘Saying what?’
‘I haven’t seen it. But I hear it’s more of the same. Hints but nothing actionable. She’s still getting flak for Ozzie Brown, which is why she’s continuing to throw shade at you. We’ve no choice but to act now.’
‘An interview!’ Dante declares.
‘Shush, Dante! I’ve told you why that’s a bad idea and I’m not telling you again. We’re doing a photo op.’
Matthew takes off his black-rimmed glasses and rubs his face. ‘Okay. Let’s hear it.’
‘Paparazzi shots of you at the football with your kids. The picture we want to create is single dad, doing his best, while his wife has left him for another man.’
God, the pain on his face.
I give him a moment and say, ‘The children must be warmly dressed and look cared for.’
‘They are.’ This, of course, from Dante.
‘Do they have Fulham hats, scarves, all of that?’ I ask Matthew.
‘Good. The three of you will look like a mini-team of your own. Now this is important, Matthew. Be safety-conscious. Don’t let the kids stand on the backs of the seats in front of them. Nothing that might make you look like a bad dad.’ We could do without a Britney-driving-the-kids-with-no-seatbelts scenario.
He nods, chewing his bottom lip.
‘Have lots of toys ready in case the kids start crying.’ It would be potentially disastrous if photos of weeping Carlisle kids were taken on people’s phones.
‘And plenty of treats. But no chocolate or sweets.’ That would also be Bad Dad stuff. ‘Raisins, rice cakes, you know. Finally, look affectionate.’
‘I don’t need to be reminded to look affectionate with my own kids.’ His mouth is mutinous.
‘Of course, sorry, of course.’ Such a delicate flower! ‘But go big on it, Matthew. This isn’t the time for subtlety. And I need your seat numbers to identify the optimum spot for the pap.’
‘The idea of being spied on …’
To my surprise, tears start to roll down his face. I locate a tissue in my bag, then take his hand and close it around it. ‘I’m sorry, Matthew, but it’ll be worth it in the end.’
‘Will you be there?’ Matthew asks me, and no one could miss the alarm that lights up Dante’s face.
‘You can’t be seen with another woman, remember?’ I’m gentle. ‘And this can’t look staged – a PR person hanging around won’t do your cause any favours.’
‘But I can call you? From the match? If I need to?’
‘I’d advise against it, Matthew. You’re spending time with your kids. If you’re caught on your phone, it’s going to look like you’re bored. So no checking emails or anything. Your phone doesn’t exist for those two hours, right?’
‘Matthew.’ A young woman sticks her head around the door. ‘I’ve got your shirt.’
‘Greta?’ Matthew wipes his face with his hands. ‘Five minutes?’
She shakes her head and just about manages to squash into the tiny space, carrying a shirt and a handful of ties. ‘Needs to be now. Time for make-up.’
Matthew stands up. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, in my general direction, then pulls his T-shirt over his head and tosses it to Greta. Sweet Jesus, the abs on him. Actual real-life abs. It’s a long time since I’ve seen that sort of thing. And the chest! Dusted with dark hair, just the right amount, not too much, nothing gross.